Game of Thrones: The Road to Pirate King

Don't use people with suspicion, don't use people who are suspicious.

Oberyn Martell is now the leader of the mercenary group he employs, and he himself has said that you don't need to care about his status in Westeros or Dorne; just treat him as the leader of the Red Viper mercenary group. Since that's the case, Euron no longer stands on ceremony, immediately adjusting their roles to patron and mercenary, boss and employee.

In that secluded, enclosed room in Braavos, where the whispers of the canal could be heard, the air was heavy and stagnant.

Euron Greyjoy stood with his back to Oberyn Martell, his gaze seemingly piercing through the thick stone wall, directed towards the distant east. The enormous map of Essos on the wall resembled a chaotic land awaiting conquest.

He didn't turn around, but his voice, clear and cold, pierced the silence, each word like an iron nail driven into a wooden board.

"Commander Martell, we have a month in Braavos." Euron finally turned around, his heterochromatic eyes gleaming with an inhuman light in the dim light. "Thirty sunrises and sunsets. By then, I want to see a comprehensive plan laid out on this table—every step of the route, every supply point, strategies for dealing with every type of enemy, and... a detailed list of the personnel you need."

His finger jabbed sharply at the map, like a general deploying troops on a sand table, sliding from the intricate network of free-trading city-states to the scorching shackles of Slaver's Bay, sweeping across the endless grasslands of the Dothraki Sea, skimming over the desolation of the Red Wasteland, briefly lingering in the deathly shadows of the Valyrian Peninsula, and finally pointing to the spice mists of Qarth and the darkest legends of Asshal.

"One month from now, you and your people will accompany me. We will personally explore every inch of this continent's secrets." His speech was steady, yet carried an undeniable decisiveness. "Linguists, guides, assassins, beast tamers, scholars who can decipher stone inscriptions, even wizards who can smell magic... whatever kind of strange and unusual talent you need, recruit them. All the funding will naturally be provided by me."

He took a step forward, closing in on Oberyn, his imposing presence like a tsunami, though perhaps shorter. "This journey will last two and a half years. Not a day more, and absolutely no half-heartedness." His voice suddenly lowered, filled with warning, "I must return to the Iron Islands when the winter in Westeros is completely over and the first spring breeze blows across the Neck. There can be no delay. This concerns your commission!"

These words are no longer a discussion, but a decree. They define the timeframe, grant unlimited resources, and also impose an absolute shackle of time. This will be a grand expedition in a race against time—a journey of wanting and yet not wanting.

Oberyn Martell let out a low, husky chuckle. He tilted his head, his famous black eyes gleaming with a playful and probing light, like a serpent scrutinizing its prey. "The 'Son of the Drowned God'..." he drawled, as if savoring the weight of the title, "What audacity! What, suddenly decided to trust this 'serpent' renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms? Aren't you afraid that one night at camp, your own guards will send you to your death?"

Euron's expression remained unchanged, only a slight glint flickered in the depths of his heterochromatic eyes. "Trust?" He scoffed, as if he'd heard the most boring word. "You've been navigating this continent for two years, Oberyn. You should know the rules here better than I do—profit outweighs loyalty. And you, undoubtedly, know better than most how to use the rules to survive. Secondly, my father and your brother have always been close, and the Iron Islands have no enmity with Dorne; on the contrary, they have many collaborations. Besides, would the mighty Red Viper really harm a seven-year-old child?"

"That's precisely why I want to advise you. If you want to live longer, please remember that nothing is impossible, and always be wary of everyone around you."

I will keep your advice in mind!

Oberyn's smile faded slightly, and his tone took on a rare seriousness. "Not all places are like Braavos, where gold and intelligence can buy you passage. Further east... there exist things that cannot be explained by swords. Ancient magic, whispering cities, creatures lurking in the shadows. That is not a territory that the Iron Fleet's longships can conquer."

"I know," Euron replied simply and directly, even with a hint of fanatical anticipation. "I came here to witness magic and mystery firsthand. Otherwise, do you think I traveled all the way from the frozen Pyke Island to enjoy a warm winter here?"

"Insight?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "The price could be your life. Danger is everywhere. We might not necessarily die there, but more likely, one or several of us will disappear forever in ways no one can predict."

"So," Euron leaned forward, his voice lower yet more menacing, "that's why I had Mareo spare no expense in finding what's supposedly the best mercenary group. If you, or your 'Oberyn Martells,' don't have that confidence..." He paused deliberately, observing the other's expression, before continuing slowly, "it's alright. My gold coins can also open the doors of the Golden Company or the Second Sons. I've heard that although their prices are high, at least their contractual integrity is reliable."

These words were like a precisely aimed needle, piercing the very core of Oberyn's pride. The mockery on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a wild, defiant gleam.

"Afraid of death?" He almost immediately scoffed, as if he had been greatly insulted. "If you, Greyjoy, are not afraid to lose your life at the ends of the earth, then of course we'll accompany you to the end!" He paused, the inextinguishable flame of adventure rekindling in his eyes, and said frankly, "To be honest, such a journey into the unknown... is exactly what I want."

"Very good." Euron leaned back in his chair with satisfaction, as if he had just completed a routine transaction. "Then, we'll depart in a month. In the meantime, I'll handle some business with the Chamber of Commerce, and by the way," he added with a cryptic smile, "have some fun in Braavos."

"If your plans don't suit your taste, I might just replace your Red Viper Mercenary Group..."

"Hmph, just you wait and see!"

In Braavos, a city woven from canals and secrets, Euron Greyjoy's list of desires is long, but one name, like a dim beacon, always sits atop it, unshakable—the House of Black and White.

It wasn't Braavos's most magnificent building; its unassuming lintel was easily overlooked, like an inconspicuous shadow in the urban fabric. Yet, for Euron, it possessed a more chilling allure than the Iron Bank. This was because it was home to the legendary Faceless Ones—the world's most terrifying assassins who elevated death into a sacred art.

Legends about them circulate in every damp street corner and dimly lit tavern: they are faceless ghosts, messengers of a thousand-faced god, capable of changing identities at will, mimicking anyone's voice and mannerisms. They reap lives not out of hatred or greed, but to fulfill a cold, absolute, and otherworldly covenant. Their assassinations are silent and traceless, often arriving at the most unexpected moment and in the most unexpected way.

The king might die suddenly in his heavily guarded palace, the governor might drown in a cup of water, and the mighty knight might pass away peacefully in his sleep, as if death were merely a willing sacrifice.

Euron was deeply fascinated by this absolute control over life, this terrifying power that transcended worldly rules.

He longed to stand before that simple gate, to feel the chill emanating from it, a chill that could freeze one's soul; he longed to glimpse their workings, to understand the ultimate logic of price and exchange hidden beneath their religious rituals. This was not merely to seek their services, but rather out of an almost instinctive curiosity and exploration of the strong for the stronger.

For him, going to Braavos without trying to approach the House of Black and White was like entering a treasure mountain and returning empty-handed.